Feeling paler than snow, I'd sheepishly gone to the pharmacy to get a home pregnancy kit, but didn't have a chance to use it before Austin was home for the evening. Even though I was feeling better physically, I was nervous enough that I must have still looked ill, and he didn't ask any questions when I went to bed early.
I couldn't tell him what I thought might be going on. What was the point of dropping that bomb on him before such an important fight, when I wasn't even sure myself?
When I suggested maybe I should sleep in a spare room to help make sure he wasn't sick for his fight, he just shrugged, gave me a big germ-sharing kiss and said "If you get sick, I get sick."
This morning, the nausea was back again, and once Austin was out of the house I dragged myself out of bed to puke in the toilet and then pee on a stick. While waiting for the recommended fifteen minutes, I drifted off again.
Now awake again, I knew that in the bathroom at the end of the hallway there was a little stick sitting next to the sink that might change my life. Every limb was made of lead as I hauled myself to my feet and slumped out of the bedroom.
When I shuffled into the bathroom I kept my eyes level, holding my own unsteady gaze in the mirror as I approached. I looked scared, and the sight of that stick in the lower periphery of my vision wasn't helping.
Without glancing down, I picked it up and held it in front of me. I could see it in my hands in the mirror. Such a little thing. So much power.
If I looked down and saw two lines, who would be staring out at me from the mirror when I looked back up? Not Skylar Cross, the scared small town girl fleeing to find her own life. Not Skylar Aquila, the proud young wife of a rising MMA star. It'd be an expectant mother. A mommy.
It was almost like there was some kind of iron bar under my chin when I tried to look down, forcing my head back up, but I managed it, and turned the stick over in my hands. My heart bounced all over my chest like a ricocheting bullet as I focused on the little result window.
Two lines. Two.
The home pregnancy test clattered to the ground and I didn't even spare a glance at the mother-to-be in the mirror. I needed to sit down. Fast.
More by good luck than good management, I made it to the living room and collapsed on to the couch. With my head in my hands I tried to wrap my brain around what was happening.
What was Austin going to say? What was he going to do? Everything was almost perfect, and now it was all going to change.
He loved me, I was sure of it, but he was only a handful of years older than I was. Had his sexual hunger for me blinded him about basic biology as much as it had done to me?
Before we were thrust together, he had a well-deserved reputation. Fighting his way through the NHBFC ranks and fucking his way through every desirable woman he happened across. How could the concept of fatherhood have ever seeped its way into the haze of that lifestyle?
A lump formed in my throat. If I looked at myself in the mirror would I see a single mother-to-be?
A tear escaped the corner of my eye before I could shake my head to clear it. That was crazy terror-talk.
Austin had looked at me like he wanted to eat me all up since the day we met, but since getting married, that hunger went deeper, it was something else. He wanted me. Mind, body and soul. I was sure of it.
I sat up straight and took several deep calming breaths before looking down and putting my hand on my stomach. Under my palm I couldn't feel anything out of the ordinary, just my stomach the same as usual. What would it be like to feel a little kick?
The thought brought a tentative smile to my face.
"Don't worry, little one, everything is going to be OK," I cooed as much to myself as to my barely-macroscopic child.
I startled when I heard those words, amazed at how much my voice sounded like the memory of my own mother. A knock rang out on the door, and I startled again.
When I answered it, there was a group of three men in dark business suits standing there, the smallest nearer the door and two bigger guys behind him, looking like well-dressed bodyguards.
"Hello?"
"Hi there. We're business associates of Austin's."
"Oh … business associates? He's not home right now, he'll be down at Ross' gym. Do you have the address?"
"Yeah we know where that motherfucker is, you dead bitch."
The smaller guy held his finger up and then waved it in my direction. Before I could get out of the way enough to slam the door, the two bigger guys rushed in and grabbed me by the arms, dragging me outside kicking and screaming.
Austin
Ross and I were in the media room, halfway through watching a slow-motion replay of Brenton Southgate's twentieth fight from a few years back, when the knock came on the door. Ross had told everybody not to bother us, and most of the time everybody in the gym had their own shit to get on with, so Ross muttered a few choice words as he paused the playback and opened the door.
The light from outside flowed in and I looked over my shoulder to see Ken Horn standing there. He looked more serious than a heart attack.
"What the fuck did you do, Austin?" he asked.
"What needed to be done, man, fuck them."
"What's he talking about?" asked Ross.
Ken stepped in the door and Ross closed it behind him. "Oh, he hasn't told you?"
Ross looked from Ken, to me, and back again as Ken walked over and half sat on a desk before continuing.
He pointed at me. "This crazy asshole killed a Bertolini soldier, fucked up another two, Renato Picolli and Renato's nephew too."
"What the fuck?" said Ross.
Ken threw up his hands.
"Fuck them," I repeated. "I didn't fuckin' shoot that guy. They never should have pulled a gun on me."
"What the fuck is going on?" Ross said again as if I'd ignored him.
"They called me into a meeting on Wednesday, said the Picollis were in charge of the MMA match fixing now and I was supposed to throw the Southgate fight. I told them to go fuck themselves and it went south from there."
"Dammit, Austin," started Ken and then shook his head. "These aren't random guys from a nightclub. These aren't people you can disrespect, let alone what you did. Renato is a made-man, and now his jaw is wired shut."
"So I did you a favor, now nobody has to listen to his stupid fuckin' voice."
"No, he's still got plenty to say, man. That's why I'm here."
I stood up. "You really wanna do their dirty work when it comes to me?"
Ken held up his hands. "Whoa there. I haven't forgotten where we came from. Maybe you have, but I haven't. I begged them to let me bring you in."
I waved him away. "Fuck that. Like I told Renato, or Pussyface, or whatever he goes by now, the deal is off. I'm done with them."
"You don't get it, man. This was no bar fight, no ‘haha, you got me this time, next time I'll get you' fuckin' bullshit. This is way beyond that. If I don't bring you in, then other guys are gonna come. Lots of guys, with lots of guns and maybe some fuckin' rocket launchers." Ken pointed in the general direction of the rest of the gym. "Everybody out there will die and you'll still end up coming in. You want their blood on your hands?"
"Holy fuck, Austin." Ross sat down.
I ran my hand over my chin as I thought about this clusterfuck.
"Let's say I go in. What am I walking into? They shoot me there instead of here?"
"No. They said that wasn't on the cards anyway. You make too much money for them, you know, when you're on a short leash. Gavino Bertolini himself wants to talk to you. Both of you. You'll get through this if you can control yourself."
"You believe that?" I asked.
"I do."
After a long pause, during which Ross cussed me out with his eyes, Ken leaned forward.
"Please, Austin. Come in and talk with Gavino."
"Fuck it, let's meet him," I said.
The Bertolini headquarters turned out to be a big old mansion on a large estate on the east side of the city. Ken drove us through the gates and right up to the courtyard in front of the doors and from the moment we stepped out of the car, I counted at least three guns pointing at our heads at any given time.
"Easy … easy," Ken said under his breath as he walked close behind us.
I had no choice, really. It seemed like they'd learned their lesson from yesterday and the people with guns were well out of reach, leading us down the wide hallways and trailing behind.
Even when they led us into a smallish room, the odds were impossible. Ten guys, armed to the teeth, lined the walls of the sparsely furnished area.
Behind a desk sat an older guy right out of the old gangster movies. Hell, he might have even been one of the guys out of the old gangster movies for all I knew, except he was carrying an extra hundred pounds or so of fat these days.
In front of the desk were two steel-framed chairs, bolted to the ground, with handcuffs permanently attached to loops on the backs. Off to the side was one of those old TVs and DVD players, on the trolley they used to roll into the classrooms at school on the days when the teachers especially didn't give a fuck.